


A Dream Within A Dream

by Irollforinitiative



Series: Theirs Is Not to Reason Why [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angst, Biting, Hickeys, M/M, Major Character Injury, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irollforinitiative/pseuds/Irollforinitiative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Greg start talking again.  For a bit it goes much better than expected.  However, that doesn't last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dream Within A Dream

_Sherlock held out a hand and pressed a finger to Mycroft's lips to silence him.  He took a deep breath and spoke slowly, his words still sounding muddled and slightly mispronounced like a toddler's, "You…are an idiot."_

Mycroft's mouth fell open and he gaped.  It took him a few seconds to regain his composure and close his mouth before asking, "And why, might I ask, am I an idiot this time? Bear in mind that I am choosing to overlook the fact that those are your first words to anyone post-coma."

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  When he spoke, his words were a little clearer but were still stilted. "Unlike you, I have priorities.  What must be said first is that you are an idiot for leaving Greg."

 

"How do you know it wasn't the other way round? Oh, what am I saying? You might sound like a dullard but you are still you.  What was it specifically?" Mycroft sat back in his chair.  It was surprisingly much easier to deal with everything that had happened when he was bickering with Sherlock.

 

Sherlock smiled at Mycroft's dig, "The letter.  Mother took it out of your coat pocket while you slept and read it. I read it over her shoulder while feigning sleep."

 

Mycroft's hand flew to the pocket where the letter should have been. It was gone.  He frowned. "So? How does that prove that I am an idiot?"

 

"Because you love him enough that you would put yourself through hell to have him alive.  You--"

 

Mycroft cut Sherlock off, "Please. While I am very pleased that you are doing better, and I know it's best for you to practice speaking, I cannot talk about this.  I simply cannot. I already have enough guilt. I don't need more."

 

"Needless guilt."

 

"How…how can you say that? I let you get shot!" Mycroft stared at Sherlock, horrified.

 

Sherlock looked down at John, who was still sleeping where he had been intermittently all day: with his head on the bed, Sherlock's fingers in his hair. "Because I'd have done the same thing."

 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, his eyebrows raised. "I'm sorry?"

 

"I know my speech isn't that difficult to understand."

 

"While I may have heard you, I did not understand.  And still do not."

 

Sherlock sighed and looked over to Mycroft, "While you may be my brother, we have never and will never complete the existence of one another.  You try much harder than I do, yes.  But the point stands.  You are family, yes.  But one can live without family.  But for better or for worse, I do not know how to live without John.  And it seems that he doesn't know how to live without me either.  You let him take horrid care of himself while I was away." Sherlock glared at Mycroft, "And it is only increasingly more true with you and Greg.  You are in love.  Honest, truthful love.  You cannot live without the other person."

 

Mycroft looked away, "I don't.  I was mistaken.  I was selfish. I was--"

 

It was Sherlock's turn to cut Mycroft off, "Shut up. You're saying that because he asked you to not be around when he visits.  But you need to be.  You need to tell him how you feel."

 

Mycroft turned his now cold gaze on Sherlock and shook his head, "Supporting discussing feelings.  It seems that gunshot wound did damage something." He stormed out and immediately had to fight down the wave of guilt and horror he felt at his words.  He called his car to take him home and then to work. It was a convenient excuse to avoid Sherlock and their mother for the rest of the day.

 

In the hospital room, Sherlock sighed and shook his head, "You can stop feigning sleep now. He's gone."

 

John lifted his head, a blush already on his cheeks, "You knew? What am I saying, of course you knew."

 

Sherlock smiled at John and relaxed back against his pillows, "I missed you."

 

John grinned wide, "I missed you too, obviously." he waved vaguely at the dark circles under his eyes.

 

"That's what I've been trying to say since I woke up.  That and I'm sorry."

 

John shook his head, "You've nothing to be sorry for. Greg explained it all."

 

"The apology wasn’t for you.  It was for Mycroft."

 

It was early afternoon when Greg received a text from John.

_You can come 'round about half five. -John_

Greg paused before he responded.

 _Mycroft's not going to be there, is he? -Greg_  

_No mate.  Wouldn't do that to you. -John_

_Liar.  You would if you thought it'd get us back together. -Greg_

_Greg, I won't.  I promise.  Sherlock's talking.  You should come see him. -John_

_He's talking? -Greg_

_Yep.  First thing he did was call Mycroft an idiot.  Still sounds a bit off, though, so don't mention it when you get here. -John_

_Wouldn't dream of it. -Greg_

_Liar. -John_

 

Greg smiled and pocketed his mobile. It had been far too long since he and John had just spent time together.  After Sherlock left, John had stopped wanting to go out and when they did, Greg always felt guilty because he knew that Sherlock was alive but he couldn't tell John for fear of risking everyone's lives.  They would have to go out for pints on Friday.  Whenever Friday was.  Greg checked his mobile to figure out what day it was.  Not sleeping, worrying about Sherlock, and then Genevieve Holmes's visit the night before had combined for a bit of a crazy…month. Turned out it was Tuesday.  Greg nodded, pints Friday then.

 

When half five rolled around, Greg sheepishly stepped into Sherlock's room. "Hey, I hear someone's talking again."

 

He was met with an eye roll from Sherlock and no John about. "Obviously I'm speaking.  Nothing can keep me quiet for long."

 

Greg tried to not frown at the slight lisp he had still, "Where's John."

 

"Fetching take away.  I refuse to eat hospital food."

 

Greg chuckled and patted Sherlock's leg affectionately.  As soon as he did it he realized it had been dumb, so very dumb.  Sherlock's face fell and he regarded Greg coldly. Greg winced, "Sorry, forgot."

 

"I didn't.  But it seems you forgot a lot. Like the fact that I see everything.  Your ex-wife, really? I know that Mummy can be cruel, but what in the world could she say to drive you back to the bed of your ex-wife last night?"

 

Greg blanched, "You know? I mean…I just…” He sighed, “Don't tell Mycroft."

 

Sherlock picked at some fuzz on his blanket, "And why shouldn't I? I thought you two broke up."

 

"We did. I just…I don't want him to know."

 

"So you still have hope for you two to get back together?"

 

"No, I just don't want him to know that within a day of us breaking up shagged someone else."

 

"But you did.  Why?"

 

Greg sat in the chair next to Sherlock's bed heavily and sighed. It was Sherlock; of course a hospital visit would be an interrogation. "Because your Mummy made it abundantly clear that as much as Mycroft wanted to love me, he didn't.  Not like I love him.  And that hurts.  It makes you feel empty.  And shagging your ex-wife makes that emptiness a little easier for a short while."

 

Sherlock was silent for a moment, "That's wrong."

 

"It's the way I felt.  Right or wrong it's fact."

 

"No I mean what you said about Mycroft.  He chose you.  He loves you more than I can fathom."

 

Greg shook his head, "No, he just thinks that."

 

Sherlock growled and grit his teeth; when he spoke it was snippy, "Oh do shut up with the pity. He chose you because in the end he will always choose you.  You are the only person he has ever truly loved, and he cares for you more than I believed possible for one human to care for another."

 

Greg looked down at his hands, "I'm sorry he chose me.  I'm sorry you got shot."

 

"I'm sorry I got shot as well.  But I'm not sorry about his decision.  It's the one I would have made in a similar situation." Sherlock looked up and past Greg. 

 

Greg looked over his shoulder and followed Sherlock's gaze to John, who was coming down the hall with bags of takeaway and a massive grin on his face. He found himself wondering the same thing he'd wondered almost every day since he met John: was there something more there?  As per usual, he didn't have time to ponder it as John came in the door and set down the food.

 

"Got you the sesame chicken, Greg.  That's your favorite right?" John handed Greg a styrofoam container and a plastic fork.

 

"Yeah.  Thanks mate."

 

"You both look pale as the dead.  Was Sherlock giving you shit?" John sent Sherlock a scolding look.

 

Greg chuckled and shook his head, "No.  Just talking about some things that needed to be said."

 

John nodded and smiled.  They all ate in silence, John seeming to be the only one with permission to interact with Sherlock's unfeeling legs.  He pushed them gently to the side and sat at the foot of the bed to eat.  They were almost done eating when Sherlock picked up his mobile, clicking away at it for a second before setting it aside. 

 

John frowned, "Who're you texting?"

 

Sherlock looked over at Greg and smiled, "Mycroft."

 

Greg choked on his water and stared at Sherlock, "No.  You didn't.  You didn't tell him."

 

John looked between the two of them, "Tell him what?"

 

"Lestrade slept with his ex-wife last night.  And yes, I did."

 

Greg was about to shout when his mobile buzzed.  He looked down at it and felt ill.

_We need to talk, Gregory. Please come to my flat. -MH_

Greg stood up and set his jaw, "Goddamn it Sherlock.  I didn't want him to know."

 

"It's for the best." Sherlock replied, flippantly.

 

Greg grit his teeth harder, "You had best be right."

 

Greg rushed to the street and hailed a cab, giving the cabbie their address.  Mycroft's address. Because that's what it was now. Mycroft hadn't summoned him home.  Or even to THE flat.  He'd summoned Greg to "my flat."  The possessive pronoun tore across Greg's hopes as he sat in the back seat and imagined any number of ways the following conversation could go.  All of them ended with him walking home in the rain. He pressed the button for the top flat and was buzzed in immediately.  The climb up the stairs had never seemed so long or so desolate.  Because this time he wasn't coming home.  He knocked on the door and it was immediately opened by an entirely put-together looking Mycroft.

 

"Do come in, Gregory."

 

Greg stepped in and sighed, "So we're back to Gregory now?"

 

Mycroft cooly raised an eyebrow, "You are back to shagging your ex-wife, so yes, Gregory, that is precisely what we are back to."

 

"He shouldn't have told you." Greg collapsed in a chair at the small dining room table and looked around.  The small yet lavish flat still felt like home.  It still was.  He'd only been away from it for one night. That was a lie.  He'd been physically away for one night.  But this, them, their relationship, that had been over since Mycroft shouted Greg's name that night. Greg had to keep reminding himself that.  It made it hurt less. All of it.

 

Mycroft sneered and sat across from him - not next to him as they used to sit -primly. "Yes, he should have."

 

"No, he shouldn't.  What Eva and I did is our business and ours alone." Greg's voice began to rise in agitation as he looked down at his nervous hands.  

 

"Well, since you decided to jump from my bed to hers it does concern me as it essentially nulls and voids everything we had." Mycroft kept his voice low but biting.

 

Greg looked up and gaped, " _I_ null in voided us? What about you?"

 

"Me?! Were you there when I chose your life above my own brother's?" Mycroft's voice finally began to rise and his icy composure fell away.

 

"Yes you! I spoke with your mother.  I know about your tattoo!!" Greg slammed his hands on the table and stood up.  In reality it was an absurd thing to be shouting about.  It was a tattoo.  A tiny tattoo.  A tiny tattoo that represented so much more.  It represented the fact that after eleven  months together,  over five of which they'd been having ample and regular sex and one of which they still slept in the same bed and often showered together, even if it was while Sherlock was in a coma.  Greg frowned as it dawned on him that he and Mycroft had been together for over a year.  A year and two weeks as of yesterday, when they split up. It deflated him and Mycroft jumped on it, thinking Greg was giving up.

 

"Don't you just give up after that! He was still shouting and stood up as well. 

 

Greg shook his head slowly and whispered, "No.  I'm not giving up.  I'm realizing.  Realizing that it's been over a year since our first date.  We were together for over a year.  A year, Mycroft! In that time I've learned about everything! The fact that you were married! You told me about Melissa and all that happened there but somehow I never knew you have a tattoo? Why?!" Greg was shouting again.

 

Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as he shouted, "Because I wanted to be perfect for you!"

 

The silence hung like a tangible entity between them.  Mycroft kept his eyes covered and Greg just stared, frowning.

 

"I'm sorry, what?" He crossed his arms, allowing the anger of the moment to abate a little.

 

Mycroft dropped his hands and looked at Greg evenly, entirely vulnerable for a split second.  "Because I wanted to be perfect for you and that tattoo is something I regret."

 

Greg frowned deeper, "But you love beetles."

 

Mycroft sighed and sat back down.  "Yes, I do. But I got the tattoo when I was 16.  I wanted to do something subversive. I wanted to rebel. So I went into the shop and told them to do anything they wanted, just keep it small.  The artist loved the way insects moved so he gave me a beetle." Mycroft lifted the leg of his trouser and pushed his sock down slightly, turning his knee to reveal a tattoo the size of woman's thumbnail on the back of his knee, "I started to look at insects and beetles afterwards.  I figured if I was going to have a tattoo of one I might as well know something about them.  And it turns out I fell in love with beetles.  But the tattoo isn't for the love.  It's for stupid and childish reasons so I hate it.  And I didn't want you to see it."

 

"How do you hide something like that from me for so long?" Greg was still hurt by the secret.

 

Mycroft gave a soft chuckle. "Simple, keep the lights off and the sheets up.  Any time we were gallivanting about naked your eyes weren't on the backs of my knees.  From a distance it would look like a mole or a birth mark."

 

Greg nodded sadly and sank back into the chair. "Yes.  I suppose that makes sense."

 

"Why is it such a big deal? It's just a little thing? Hardly worth running off to shag your former spouse." The annoyance crept back into Mycroft's voice. 

 

"It's what it represents, Mycroft."

 

"And what is that?"

 

Greg looked at Mycroft sharply as he became annoyed as well. "A year together and you've not been willing to share it with me.  A part of you I didn't even know about.  You know everything about me.  All of my secrets and all of my past.  But I don't even know about a bloody tattoo. Your mother was right.  You didn't love me like I love you.  You just convinced yourself you did."

 

Mycroft stared at Greg blankly. "She told you that?"

 

"Yes.  And I didn't want to believe her at first.  But the tattoo.  And the way you just gave up on us…I figured you had come to the same conclusion."

 

"You gave up too.  You said so in the letter."

 

Greg reached into his coat pocked and pulled out the letter in question, laying it on the table. "Oh, I know.  I said that.  And I planned that.  But I wouldn't have gone through with it.  I couldn't have.  I would have fought and tried and struggled until the end. Because that's how strongly I feel about you."

 

Mycroft stared at the folded letter and traced his fingers across the paper, stroking it gently. "I chose you over my own brother.  I have not and cannot come to forgive myself for what I did to Sherlock. But that doesn't mean I would not make the same decision again right now."

 

Greg growled and slammed his fist on the table. "Bullshit! You haven't even looked at me properly since then.  All you see when you look at me is regret."

 

Mycroft looked up with a cold expression. He stood up and reached down to haul Greg up by his jacket, pressing a hard kiss to his mouth. "No, all I see when I look at you is sexual desire at an inappropriate time."

 

Greg grabbed Mycroft's shirt and pulled him down for a bruising kiss. "It's not inappropriate now.  So prove it."

 

Mycroft groaned and pressed Greg back and into the kitchen counter. "All I've wanted for weeks is to fuck you.  To fuck you until you remember what I did for you."

 

Greg whimpered as their hips ground together. "Make me remember."

 

Mycroft snatched Greg's shirt away and tossed it aside. He let his hungry mouth fall on the skin of Greg's neck, biting and sucking the skin roughly. Greg moaned and started on Mycroft's buttons. When he entirely failed to get any off he forced himself to get the waistcoat and tie off before just grabbing the sides of Mycroft's shirt and tugging, sending a cascade of buttons to the floor.  Mycroft pulled Greg with him and backed up towards the bedroom as he glanced at the buttons on the floor.

 

"You are very lucky that I do that like that shirt. Please allow me to remove my cufflinks and trousers." he sounded entirely in control as he turned and pushed Greg onto the bed by his hips.

 

Greg shook his head, "It's wrong you can sound so calm right now.  I'm going to make that go away."

 

Mycroft stepped out of his trousers and raised an eyebrow, "Oh? And how will you do that?"

 

"Something I've wanted to do for a bit." Greg stood up and roughly turned Mycroft's back to him before pressing him roughly into the wall.  Mycroft made of noise of indignation that quickly turned into a moan as Greg kissed his lower back and slipped his pants off.

 

Mycroft's breath caught as Greg kissed lower. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?  That's unsanitary."

 

Greg chuckled and kissed Mycroft's tight entrance. "Do you want me to stop?"

 

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer but it turned into throaty moan as Greg began to use his tongue. He worked hard to come up with the necessary brain cells to respond. "No…don't stop. Please."

 

Greg chuckled and continued to work his lips and tongue around Mycroft's hole. It wasn't long before Mycroft was scratching his nails against the wall dressings and moaning incessantly. It was almost too much.  Suddenly he reached back and gripped Greg's shoulder.

 

"Stop. Please stop."

 

Greg immediately moved back and frowned, worried, "What is it? Is something wrong?" No amount of anger or pent up sexual desire could tamp out his worry for Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft just turned and regarded him with dark eyes, shaking his head, before heaving him up by his arms and pushing him roughly back onto the bed. Greg grumbled.

 

"Watch it, that almost hurt."

 

Mycroft fetched the lube from the bedside table, he hadn't moved it from its home while Greg lived there yet, and watched Greg remove his jeans and pants. "Good.  It's going to.  Just a little.  Just the right amount."

 

Greg shivered as Mycroft stalked over to him. "Why?"

 

"Because that's all I have for you, pain."

 

"Then make it hurt." Greg grabbed the back of Mycroft's head and pulled him down into a kiss that was more teeth than lips.

 

Mycroft growled and bit Greg's shoulder harshly.  Greg yelped and frowned but any protest was cut off by Mycroft's slick fingers slipping inside of him smoothly. Greg let out a shuddering breath and pressed his hips into Mycroft's hand.  Mycroft worked him open quickly and thoughtlessly, biting red marks onto his skin, each one eliciting a moan from Greg. Greg yelped as Mycroft bit too hard on his nipple, but he didn't push him away.  Instead he held his hair tighter.  It felt good to hurt.  His body became an expression of the pain he'd had inside for what seemed like forever. Mycroft's teeth scraped along the furrows that his silence had created.  His overly quick fingers were the sharp reminder of what it felt like to be fucked, a sensation he had begun to forget due to the distance between them.  It was dark and everything hurt, but Greg felt more alive than he had since before Moriarty first put that gun to his head in threat.

 

"Enough of the hands.  Fuck me already." Greg panted and slapped Mycroft's hand away.

 

Mycroft frowned and growled, not thinking about whether or not Greg was ready, and pushed into him with a deep groan.  "Are you goddamned happy now?"

 

Greg winced at the intrusion he wasn't really read for and bit his lip until it bled a little.  He nodded and whimpered. "Yes.  Very happy."

 

"Good." Mycroft started to rock his hips and kissed Greg, tasting blood and reveling in the taste.  In the pain.  The pain he'd been holding inside of himself for weeks. The pain of choosing Greg and not regretting it at all.  He let all his love and all his anger at himself pour into his hips and his hand on Greg's length, both moving frantically. 

 

Greg did something he'd never done before in his entire life.  He laid back and allowed himself to be entirely taken.  He didn't try and help.  He didn't move.  He didn't hold on.  It was physically impossible for him to do anything because his nerves were all firing in overdrive as Mycroft seemed to touch and bite him everywhere at once.  So he laid there and twitched, overcome with the sensation.  Suddenly it all focused in on a pinpoint at the base of his spine and he had just enough time to hold Mycroft's shoulders weakly and whimper as he came hard enough that his semen hit the headboard of the bed and the pillow.  His moans became a solid noise of pleasure as Mycroft held his hips tight and pounded against him desperately for a few more moments before erratically thrusting once, twice, three times more and collapsing onto Greg.

 

"Bloody fucking hell." Mycroft grunted and slipped out of Greg.

 

"I love it when you swear." Greg chuckled and rolled so Mycroft slid onto his side and Greg was able to maneuver them so he was behind Mycroft, holding him tightly and running a smoothing hand across his arm. 

 

Mycroft sighed and smiled as Greg spooned up behind him.  It felt like a part of his mind and soul that had been missing and finally returned.  The fatigue washed over him as he sleepily murmured, "I love _you_."

 

Greg sighed and listened to Mycroft fall asleep, not responding.  He waited until Mycroft's breath was entirely even before he slipped out of the bed and into what used to be their bathroom.  He looked at himself in the mirror and examined the damage.  His arms, neck, shoulders, and chest were peppered with livid bite marks.  Greg thought about a shower but realized he didn't feel at home enough there to do it.  With a sigh Greg leaned on the counter over the sink and squeezed his eyes closed.  Everything still hurt but it wasn't his bum or the bites.  It was a steady burn just below his skin; it raced across his nerves and set them on fire.  It wasn't pleasant. 

Greg sighed and forced himself back out into the bedroom. He went to the dresser to look at Mycroft's things.  The first thing he noticed was the cufflinks.  They were the old ones that Mycroft used to wear.  Greg hadn't seen them since he gave Mycroft the beetle ones for their six month anniversary. The sight of the old cufflinks tore through him and he found himself opening Mycroft's drawer to find the other ones.  There were at the back of his sock and accessory drawer. Not even in a box, just loose. They'd been tossed aside to the back of the drawer with obvious intent to not wear them again.  When Greg started to think about it, Mycroft hadn't actually worn them since he began to dress properly after the accident.  With a grimace he set the cufflinks gently on the top of the dresser and ran a finger across them before fleeing back into the bathroom.

 

Greg quietly cleaned himself up and fetched his clothes, dressing quickly before retreating to the street. He sighed and looked up at the sky as it drizzled rain.  He was walking home, alone, and in the rain.  Just as he'd predicted.  But it wasn't home.  It was John and Sherlock's flat.  Home was behind him, sleeping soundly under the assumption that he wouldn't wake up alone.  Home was guilt.  Because Greg had pulled Mycroft's life apart by falling in love with him and then letting himself get picked up by Moriarty.  Greg knew he shouldn't, but he blamed himself.  Because there was no one else to blame for the way he felt, and he had to blame someone.

 

Mycroft woke up and felt the chill all around him.  He knew he was alone before he even rolled over.  Sighing heavily, he showered and dressed before tearing the sheets off the bed and chipping the dried semen off the headboard.  As he dressed, Mycroft saw the cufflinks sitting out and panicked.  What must it have looked like that they were thrown to the back? What must Greg have thought? Mycroft suddenly wanted to call him and explain. Explain that he'd been keeping them in his breast pocket since the accident for fear of loosing them. They meant too much to him and his life was too chaotic to properly wear them.  Then when Sherlock texted about Greg's night with Eva he'd cast them down in anger.  But that was it.  A moment of anger.  Mycroft gently slipped them into place at his shirt cuffs and set his jaw.  Instead of calling Greg to explain, he calmly walked to his car and went to work.

 

That evening he found himself at the hospital again, dreading entering Sherlock's room for fear his baby brother would instantly know everything.  Sherlock did, of course, instantly know everything. 

 

"You two shagged and still aren't together?" Sherlock nearly shouted as Mycroft entered, his voice nearly entirely back to normal. 

 

Mycroft smiled and shrugged.  Sherlock was sitting up and frowned, examining his brother.

 

"It was rough.  Much more so than usual.  Did he enjoy himself?"

 

Mycroft grimaced. "Yes.  He did.  I don't know what happened.  We fell asleep and were fine but then I woke up and he was gone."

 

Sherlock frowned.  "He needs a jump."

 

"A what?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow and sat down.

 

"A jump.  He still believes you don't really truly love him because of the things Mother said.  He needs to hear, from you, the reasons you chose him.  Moreover, you need to say it."

 

Mycroft paled. "No.  No to both things.  I will handle this on my own."

 

"Brother, you have to tell someone."

 

Mycroft bristled and snapped, "I'm not even sure I know why."

 

Sherlock chuckled and smiled, "Ah, there's the rub."

 

Mycroft grumbled and stood up.  "There's nothing.  It was an instinctual response.  It doesn't need to be explained.  Not everything in life needs to be picked apart!"

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Mycroft's shouting. "Yes.  Sure."

 

Mycroft stood and stared for a long moment before nodding. "Yes.  Well.  I need tea." he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room and past John. 

 

John frowned at Sherlock. "What did you do?"

 

"Nothing. It's what they did."

 

"Okay…then what did they do?" John tossed himself into the chair and put his feet up on Sherlock's bed.

 

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Mycroft won't tell Greg why he chose him.  So now Greg thinks Mycroft doesn't truly love him. They both love each other still but won't admit it and it's entirely frustrating!" he threw his hands in the air. 

 

John sighed, "Sherlock, don't mess with their lives to stop yourself from thinking about your legs."

 

Sherlock stared at his lifeless limbs and frowned. "I can't, John.  I can't think about it. I just have to…to think about what I still have."

 

"You might get feeling back.  Don't forget that." John reached out and laid his hand on Sherlock's arm. 

 

Sherlock smiled softly.  "My dear John, the chances of Mycroft and Greg getting back together are much higher than my regaining feeling in my legs.  Let's take the smaller step before the bigger one, alright?"

 

Mycroft stood next to the door and sighed. His brother believing in him that much somehow hurt more than if he'd hated him for choosing Greg.  Sherlock's love hurt so much more than his scorn ever could.  If that was true, how much more would Greg's love hurt right now?

 

 

  

 Sex scene inspired by [Mystradedoode's doode](http://mystradedoodles.tumblr.com/image/29395824503).

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Edgar Allan Poe's poem "A Dream Within A Dream"
> 
> "I stand amid the roar  
> Of a surf-tormented shore,  
> And I hold within my hand  
> Grains of the golden sand-  
> How few! yet how they creep  
> Through my fingers to the deep,  
> While I weep- while I weep!  
> O God! can I not grasp  
> Them with a tighter clasp?  
> O God! can I not save  
> One from the pitiless wave?  
> Is all that we see or seem  
> But a dream within a dream? "


End file.
